


Lavender

by ptcls



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, character study??? maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 12:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20045977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptcls/pseuds/ptcls
Summary: Atreus can see the peak of the mountain from where they stand, its outline still torn out from the rest of the world. The dark breath still covers the bridge between in a large plume of smoke, from this far away it almost looks beautiful. The fist of the mountain, reaches far into the sky. It feels closer than ever before, yet Atreus still feels a slice of grief tear into his stomach, a previously tightening wound beginning to weep again.( Kratos & Atreus at the beginning of their journey. Inspired by the audition tape. )





	Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> first time posting a fic. also not really beta read so excuse any mistakes x

Atreus was told many things by his mother. Stories that trailed over the starved expanses of his eager mind, like the rain that helps the trees grow. He remembers the feeling of those days on his fingertips, the only scent in the air being from the calming sweet lavender he and his mother tied together at their stems. 

The creature before them whines pitifully. 

"Do you intend to kill this creature?" His father asks. There's nothing malicious beneath it, although Atreus finds it rather difficult to read the tone of his father's voice. A problem he's had since birth it seems. 

He glances away from the bloodied grass, resting his eyes instead on the creature wailing before him. His first arrow has pierced the deer's stomach, the second is struck through it's leg pinning it to the ground. Blood dribbling down its stomach. 

"Speak your mind." 

He hears something gentle in his father's voice. A softness in his expression usually hidden behind something much denser. He begins to pick at the handle of his knife.

"It's nothing," Atreus says on reflex. The deer continues to wail within the silence that follows. "Just, I know we've done this before. And now we've done way worse but that was to survive -"

"Is this not to survive?" His father interrupts, "Food is the key to survival."

"Yes, but -"

"Then why let this creature suffer any longer.This should be a simple task now, boy, not a struggle." The unreadable tone is back, Atreus wonders whether his father is mad, or just disappointed that they've been here this long. "We kill to live, often that means the innocent have to die. This is the nature of our journey." 

He meets his father's eye. Another hard expression greeting his open gaze. Usually they make his stomach drop and leave him feeling guilty. This time, however, it reminds him of cold winters and shuddering coughs. Something that should be left to the past. 

Atreus raises his knife, gently he punctures the deer's neck. The fur soft and cold soon grows warm and wet under his clenched fist. The animal gives one last mutilated cry before all its muscles relax and it falls silent. 

His father makes a satisfied hum. "Now, let us find a place to rest." 

Atreus follows his father, an obedient shadow at midday. 

It’s not long before they find somewhere to rest. A piece of land sliced into the side of the mountain as if an afterthought. Snow had ceased to cover it and where it was most deep there sat a fire pit. 

When his father heaves the limp deer off his shoulder, a heavy thump sounds its unceremonious landing. The flash of a blade catches the wavering sun that still peaks through the trees, waning as if wanting to see what his father would do before it went to rest for the night. 

"Can I watch?" Atreus asks, curiosity rearing itself. 

"No," his father responds. "Collect the firewood." 

Atreus huffs.

The meat, when eventually cooked is sweet and ripe. It reminds Atreus of summer, an everlasting warmth and the sweetness of air that bled into even their food. 

Their journey is documented not so much through the sun across the sky but instead through the contents of their stomachs. For the most part it is fine, Atreus believes he eats well, at least he does when father is hunting.

However, in Alfheim Atreus loses all track of his meal diary. The days meld into one only broken up by ambush after ambush and yell after yell. He doesn’t truly understand the language they speak, little bits of it become common to him. Not so much so that he can decipher but by how frequently it is spat at him, he can conclude it means either ‘intruder’ or ‘die’. 

For what must be days he doesn’t sleep, he runs out of water within what feels like hours. The light never dies just shines brightly, penetrating every inch of his pupil leaving his eyes dry and sore. 

It takes him four attempts to pull his father out from the light. 

The world seemed a lot quieter now, a huffing silence surrounded by cold breaths. He knew it was in part his father, a strength that grew in these moments. Although the world itself felt more like a whisper than a yell. 

The water sloshes against the boat, a hum against the nothing around them. The lake of nine feels empty, the misery and sadness that took place there a distant memory only briefly showing itself to them, when the people who suffered most wanted to be heard. 

Atreus doesn’t blame the lake of nine for his growing appetite, nor does he blame the cold air for tightening of his chest and the stuffing of his nose. He instead remains silent, taking whatever calm breaths he can muster and avoiding his father’s tight expressions as he rows them gently through the lake.

In the horizon, the peak of the sun scorns across the line of the end of the world. Atreus feels the heat of it rising off the water and for a brief moment he feels somewhat warmed. The glow creates a deep hue of orange to surround them briefly, before it begins to bleed into a dark hue. It takes this long for both of them to realise that night is falling. 

“Shall we dock here?” Atreus asks as they approach a small expanse of land. 

His father nods wordlessly, following the suggestion as if he’d been waiting for Atreus to speak all along.

Atreus can see the peak of the mountain from where they stand, its outline still torn out from the rest of the world. The dark breath still covers the bridge between in a large plume of smoke, from this far away it almost looks beautiful. The fist of the mountain, reaches far into the sky. It feels closer than ever before, yet Atreus still feels a slice of grief tear into his stomach, a previously tightening wound beginning to weep again. 

“Boy,” the voice of his father isn’t so much harsh as it is a command for attention. “We will need firewood.”

“Yes sir.” Atreus nods, then burrows his body into the small collection of dying trees on the island that could sparsely be a forest. 

The branches, barren of much leaf, are easy to break from their trunks. He finds he doesn’t have to put much strength into prying them off at all. The crack noises that echo as they detach from the trees make him feel strong. Feeling as though he has strength is not a gift so often presented to Atreus. He views himself as akin to a rabbit punctured by one of his arrows. It runs fast yet out of strength so soon that its efforts are often futile to the outcome. 

The island is a far cry from paradise and equally their home. Atreus thinks of the wildwoods often since leaving. The sparseness and protection it provided meant he could roam wherever he wished without so much as a scratch. The energy of the forest before they had left had felt so abhorrent in its difference that it had made him feel nauseous. Each step felt like danger and the draugr in and around them had only solidified the fact. Home was not home without mother and that was not just through feeling. 

Maybe, Atreus considered, the wildwoods died with her.

From where he stood in the silence around his own noise, something began to mutter at him. There’s not much he can pick out but the tones are all harsh. A deep grumble of something he’s yet to see. Within this pocket of new noise, he can still hear his father. The sound of him pulling the boat across the dirt, to where their camp will be. 

Atreus isn’t one to admit his fear. It grows in aching corners of his mind but yet, he never gives it a name aloud. He attempts to assure himself that he’s safe, the island is small enough that nothing can truly attack him without father being alerted. When he turns, he can see the stark red of the patterns that adorn his father’s skin through the trees. 

If Atreus peers ahead he can see the line where the trees abruptly stop and the rocks take over. As his eyes roam the peaks above, he puts down his modest collection of firewood and retrieves his bow. 

It’s a few moments before it shows itself to him, or he finds where it’s been listlessly standing. A draugr - its eyes black as coal and body burning from the inside out. Atreus flinches, arrow aimed immediately for its head. He knows from experience that it’ll take up to four shots to fully get rid of the thing. He’s still slow on the draw and at this rate he’s going to be at it alone. He swallows hard, it rolls down his throat with difficulty leaving him with a dull ache. 

The draugr hasn’t noticed him yet. He was quiet enough in his descent into the trees that it somehow hadn’t alerted the thing. 

“Atreus.” His father’s voice ruptures through the trees. 

The draugr has noticed him now. There’s an immediately spike in his stomach that jolts Atreus backwards, the arrow begins to shake in his hold. He’s never been this close to a draugr alone before. 

“Draugr!” The words get stuck in his throat on the way up. Several false starts before he can cough up the yell.

Stomping footsteps follow, Atreus tracks their proximity, he hadn’t realised how far he’d strayed. The draugr swings a fist, calling out that sound he’d heard just moments before. The action sways its whole body and the yell shocks Atreus. The impact of the movement connects with his wrist, sending him reeling to stabilise himself and steady his aim. 

The steps grow louder, the ground beneath him is weak and moves ever so slightly under each pound of his father’s run. Atreus can feel his wrist begin to bleed, bubbling to the surface of his skin. He resists the urge to put pressure on the wound. His eyes spark with the pain and despite his attempts he cannot muster deep breaths. 

Atreus times his first shot as his father bursts through the remaining trees and lands his first punch. He doesn’t need to ready another arrow as his father tares the draugr in half, it’s now limp body falling to the floor before his father’s feet. The red hot blood splattering against the tree trunks.

The hissing from the blood fills the immediate silence. Atreus lowers his bow, eyes trained on one spot of blood that’s burning itself into the moss just in front of his feet. However, his father’s eyes are trained on him, he can feel the familiar tenseness that comes with the gaze. 

“Look at me, Atreus.”

He wants to shake his head, no but instead complies. The pale of his father’s skin brings out the deep pools of his eyes, Atreus feels further pain from the look itself. 

“I’m sorry, father.” His voice is smaller than he expects.

His father’s response is a huffing breath. A hum of consideration to accept Atreus’s words as a sincere apology. 

Atreus turns away from the gaze, still feeling the dark edges of it press into the back of his head. He puts his bow away, retrieving his firewood from where it lies a few paces behind. As soon as his arms cradle them, his father begins to follow. An escort back to their makeshift camp. 

As he deposits the firewood into the pit his father has pressed into the ground, a hand grasps his upper arm. Atreus immediately flinches. He looks over and finds his father’s gaze is different this time. It reminds him of something he felt lost and for a brief moment he can smell lavender. 

“You are bleeding,” his father says, voice low. “The draugr?”

Atreus nods. His father’s grip ebbs for a moment allowing him the space to move to sit down. His father sits beside him. 

Allowing his father to take his wrist, Atreus watches the blood seep through the grey fabric of his sleeve. He hisses as his father pulls the bloodies fabric away from the wound, and with the noise, his father’s touch becomes softer. 

He never truly views his father like this. A protector yes, but a caring force not so much. There’s always been a defined line of defence around his father that Atreus has felt ever since childhood. A shared understanding between his mother and father but he was never privy to the secret. A lifetime full of avoided gazes and paternal touches that never lasted more than a blink. He’s grown accustomed to feeling alone even when in the presents of someone who should be home. Although this tenderness and silent comfort is so new, so skittish, that Atreus almost pulls away out of the uncomfortable current of it. 

The darkness begins to surround them both and Atreus feels himself grow colder with it. Despite how the blood of his wound is warming against his sticky skin. The firewood is left untouched, his father busy dressing the wound. 

“Father, can I start the fire?” He asks, although already knows the answer. 

“No,” Typical. “Rest, we do not want your wrist to be weakened.”

“I didn’t mean to find it. I heard something and thought-”

“You thought you could handle it alone. But you are reckless and too quick to attack.”

“It didn’t see me till it heard you call for me.”

“And I only called for you because you had strayed away. It comes back to the same point,” the firewood ignites, suddenly illuminating his father’s face in a bright amber, his expression deep cut in the shadows. “You thought you could handle it alone.”

Atreus huffs, although he knows his father is right. There was a distinct lack of immediate action to get him. Atreus had drawn his weapon and readied himself for a fight he knew he could not win alone. It takes him a moment to process, his chest although still tight, eases somewhat under the warmth of the flame. 

“I wanted to prove myself,” he says, low and small. “I wanted to show you I’m ready.”

“Recklessness will prove nothing, boy. It will only put us at risk. Your wrist is now hurt because of this.”

“It’s fine.”

“It is not fine. It will impact our ability in battle. Think next time.”

His father stands, his body blocks out the light of the fire for a moment. Atreus stares at the flame, how it twirls and flicks its form with ease. He cradles his wrist with his other hand, his grief burns and water pricks at his eyes. It’s moments like this where he feels his mother’s loss, the emptiness in her form that would be holding his hands, would be keeping him close. 

Instead he’s stuck with him.

When his father returns it’s with the meat from their last hunt, it’s small now and barely enough for both of them but it’ll suffice. The raw meat has blackened at its edges and the pelt still attached in places is bloodied and marred with age. Atreus watches silently as his father pushes long sticks into flesh. The puckering of it gives immediately, it slackens against the new wooden bone. 

Tatzelwurm’s taste nothing like rabbits and more so like rot. Although Atreus finds the further they travel from home the more things taste like rot. The meat when cooked is harsh on his teeth, a struggle to tear from the wooden bone his father has placed within it. After even a few bites his jaw is aching. 

Conversation dies on their tongues, the warmth of flesh is enough to keep them quiet within their meals but not within their minds. Atreus can feel his father’s working, he sees conflicts take place across the shadows on his face. Although he feels the same going on within his own. 

“Father,” he pipes up once they’ve both finished. “You’re right. I was being reckless, I’m not ready. I just wanted to believe I was.”

“What you don’t understand, boy. Is that you will never be ready.”

“It sounds like you think I’ve failed.”

“No. I have failed to prepare you soon enough for our journey. It is I who has failed you.”

There’s a gap where something slips between, his father moves to take Atreus’s hands. They’re swallowed by his palms, they’re calloused by age and scarred at the knuckles. His father moves his further forward within his grasp, until his fingertips are brushing the bandages around his father’s forearms. 

Atreus glances up at his father. 

“I have failed you many times before this one.” his father murmurs.

“What do you mean?”

There’s a vulnerability within his father’s eyes that Atreus has never seen before. Something sad and heavy with the memories that have not been shared in some time. He looks at where his fingers brush the old wrappings on his father’s arms that are stained with old blood. 

“You were hurt,” he concludes. “You didn’t fail me if you were hurt before.”

“I was hurt for good reason, Atreus. I was hurt for many. My failures go back to long before you were born, these are my punishment for many of them.” His father takes a deep breath moving away, though Atreus’s hands tighten their weak grip on his wrists, doing what little his strength can to keep him in place. “I am not fit to look after you. I never have been, I haven’t changed.”

Atreus doesn’t know what any of this is truly meaning. For here is something that has never happened before: sharing. Despite how vague it is Atreus feels some weight shift and the notion that he is a nuisance to his father, begin to fade ever so slightly. 

“But you have changed, you’re not a monster.” 

The words hang there for a moment before the weight of it begins to drag it down. Atreus has never used that word to describe his father before. Strong, yes and strict, of course but never monster. Never the things that Atreus was told to run from by his mother. Nor the trolls or the draugr or even the dragon. 

“That is exactly what I am.” His father’s voice booms,as if expecting Atreus to back down. This is no longer a conversation and Atreus feels his body grow with the urge to fight.

“Not to me!” His voice comes out a yell and his body jolts. Their hands unravel from each other and his father stares deep into Atreus’s eyes, searching. “You will fail, but how you deal with it makes you stronger.”

The fire crackles and bites into the wood, the only sound apart from their shared breathing. Atreus feels the world so quiet yet in this moment it is almost deafening. 

“My father taught me that.”


End file.
